things (un)seen
by neutralizing
Summary: Tate isn't as alone in his head, as he thinks he is. Warning for implied character death.


**Title**: things (un)seen  
**Author**: neutralizing  
**Series**: Pokémon  
**Rating/Genre**: PG-13, horror/supernatural. Warning for implied/ambiguous character death.  
**Word Count**: 1966  
**Summary**: Tate isn't as alone as he thinks he is.  
**  
Author's Note**: Vanishing twin syndrome is indeed a medical phenomenon, so you may want to acquaint yourself with it before you read this. This was done for a fanfic comm on LJ, with the prompt being "periphery". Originally written 27 October 2010.

—

Tate is an only child and it bothers him. His birthday is somewhat sad, in spite of the balloons his parents insist on putting up and the cheery colors. Shouldn't his birth have been a happy memory, filled with memories of new life and tiny fingers curled into chubby fists?

His mother always bring it up, when the festivities are over. "Life would have been so different, if your twin had been born," she recalls with a not-so-well-covered hint of depression in her voice, folding her hands neatly in her lap. His father doesn't say anything and avoids the conversation all together, for which Tate is grateful.

Vanishing twin syndrome, even after reading as many articles he can get his hands on, fascinates him as much as it unnerves him. His mother has told him the story several times—once upon a time, there were two heartbeats, two bodies and when the next ultrasound came around, there was only one. He knows that it's all too possible from a biological standpoint, but lengthy explanations do not put his mind at ease on where his twin could have possibly disappeared to.

"Please don't blame your mother too much," his father unexpectedly tells his son one day, after a practice battle between them; the usually steely gaze in his eyes has softened. "You will never know how badly she wanted both of you."

(This twin did not exist, will never exist, and yet it is everywhere Tate tries to go.)

—

The year he turns twelve, he becomes the Gym Leader for Mossdeep City and never has he felt more accomplished in his life. Sometimes Hannah and Samantha will gang up on him and pinch his cheeks (because they're apparently irresistible) while threatening to tell Flannery about his not-so-secret crush on her and sometimes he loses, but he feels at ease within the gym's walls.

The fall he turns thirteen, though, things begin to change. They're not things most normal people would notice—only espers would sense the subtle shift in the atmosphere. The trainers and Tate are all eating lunch together, when suddenly their leader feels a presence that adds up to one too many. At first, he thinks it's Blake or Maura (or both, for all he knows) playing a trick on him; while nowhere near as brash as Samantha and Hannah, they have a mischievous streak to them and they can warp their auras to the point they can split them in two. But when he asks, they give him blank stares.

"What are you talking about, Tate?"

"We're not doing anything."

"We'll show you." And both of them close their eyes, and Tate feels two more presences come into the room, before they disappear. The one still remains, and goosebumps prickle on his arms.

"Really, you guys," Tate begins, trying not to let the trepidation slip through.

"Tate, there's no one else except us eight in here," Hannah says, and even she sounds wary.

"But don't you guys feel that?" He sets down his sandwich and gives his trainers an imploring stare. "There's nine there. I swear there is."

Try as he might, all he's greeted with are bemused gazes and with a sigh, he mumbles about having an off day before returning to his sandwich.

—

A week and a half later, the nagging feeling that he's not alone doesn't dissipate and his trainers decide that a vacation to the beach is in order—he's an honest, hard-working Gym Leader and frazzled nerves happen to the best of them. While Hannah and Samantha are pelting Blake and Maura with balls of sand, Tate stands at the shoreline, watching the tide ebb from his feet, Solrock silent by his side. He roams up and down the beach, picking up shells smooth from the water and putting them in his pocket to give to his mother.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a lone figure standing at the shore, dark hair flapping in the breeze—but when he turns there's no one there.

Tate dismisses it as an inopportune coincidence.

—

Tate jolts up with a start, shaking and drenched with sweat, but just as suddenly as the fear sinks upon him, it evaporates and leaves him in a confused and tired stupor. He can recall jumbled bits and pieces of the dream he had mere seconds before—there was a room of white, an ethereal figure that he couldn't quite seem to reach, and he knows that the dream ends badly but how so, he doesn't remember.

He eyes the clock wearily. 1:24 isn't a great time to wake up, but it certainly beats the other times he's gotten up this week.

He pads into the bathroom to get a drink of water and partially to calm himself down. He knows that he's the only one up at this asinine hour but cannot shake the feeling that he's not alone.

—

"That was a good match," he says, stooping into a bow; the girl in front of him laughs, while admiring the shiny badge she's just received, and tells him how nice of a kid he is.

But just as the girl turns to leave, an image flickers beside her, and he cries, "Wait—"

The girl turns and the mirage vanishes. "Huh? You say something?"

"It's nothing," he forces out after a small silence. "H-have a good day."

—

Mt. Pyre is desolate as it is beautiful, and Tate lets the silence of the atmosphere swallow him up. It's been at least three months since he's first felt the presence; usually it's weak, a remnant of something past but there are other times where it's suffocating and he wouldn't be surprised if he turned around and saw that he was dragging a body with him. Today is an example of the latter.

Perhaps it's a foolish move to go to a _graveyard_ in hopes of getting relief, where he can feel everyone's spirits swirl around him and Tate isn't fond of ghosts; he isn't afraid of them, but he's had several challengers come in and do a number on his team. Today, though, he makes an exception.

"How nice," a voice croons from behind, and Tate turns to see a woman with wrinkles carved deep into her face, smiling down on him. "It's not very often young folk like you come out here. The spirits will appreciate that." He nods, and smiles.

But the moment he steps toward a row of shrines, he realizes that he can't detect a single aura—except the other one, of course.

He isn't sure what's more scary: the fact that it had happened, or that he still is trying to convince himself it's all happenstance.

—

Tate has displayed psychic prowess since a young age—he always knows when his parents are going to come home, well before they even leave work, and he can feel their thoughts and their emotions. They have learned to keep all of this under control, lest Tate develop an array of physical symptoms like headaches and nausea. His father is harder to read; his mother, not so much. After all, his ability to read emotion is how he knows his mother thinks about the second child more often than she doesn't.

But lately, their auras have become fuzzy and they're becoming harder to sense. One day, his mother opens the room to his door and he barely catches himself from falling off the bed.

"There you are!" she says cheerfully, giving her son a kiss on the forehead; "Gosh, I was getting kind of worried when I hadn't heard a peep from you—you weren't sleeping, were you?"

"No," he says, confused. "Didn't you and Dad come home just now?"

It's her turn to look puzzled. "Tate, we've been home for almost thirty minutes."

"You have?"

"Look at your clock; you'll see that I'm right."

The time reads 5:30, just as she says.

—

"I'm absolutely _fine_!" he protests to his parents, while the rest of his trainers in his gym remain silent and impassive. "There's nothing wrong with me, not a—"

"Tate," his mother gently begins, taking her son's hands, "Tate, honey, you're only going to be gone for two months—your father will happily take on the challengers but in the mean time, you need to focus on becoming well again—"

"I'm _fine_," he grits out. He wants someone to get it. His mother's eyes water and it isn't before long she quietly begins to cry. A part of him feels like a rotten creature; not once has he given his parents trouble, nor found any incentive in doing so, and the sight of his mother so distraught it makes him want to be sick. But at the same time, he's angry that no one else is feeling this presence, no one else is seeing the fleeting dark-haired person, that no one else noticed his disappearing abilities until now, that no one else—

"You have to believe me," he says, desperate. "I'm not making these things up, I promise."

"Tate, all of us have psychic abilities, just like you do," Maura tells him, sounding as happy as he is. "But none of us have seen or felt what you keep describing. We really do want to believe you, but…"

He can hear the silent _we just can't_ and it hurts. It hurts more than anything else he has ever felt.

—

He doesn't celebrate his fourteenth birthday.

Later that night, Tate asks his mom, "If the twin had been born, what would you have named it?"

There is a long pause before his mother closes her book and answers him. "It was too early to give you two names but… if it was another boy, I would have liked to name him Anthony. If it was a girl, Liza. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," he tells her as he goes to his bedroom, hoping tonight he won't dream of a white expanse with a phantom at its end.

—

He can no longer feel the gym trainers' auras, nor can he feel his parents' thoughts.

The dreams still remain, but he feels lighter and his skin has become paler and a bit on the transparent side.

Tate isn't bothered by this as much as he should be.

—

Up until now, all he has done in his dream is keep walking closer and closer to the thing at the end without ever closing the distance between them. This time, though, it's different.

He hears echoing footsteps all around him, yet when he steps he doesn't feel his feet connect with anything solid. Tate is practically inches away from this being—is it a girl?—and his fingers almost brush against it just as he's waking up—

—

"You've had it pretty hard, Tate."

—Except that he doesn't wake up.

Not in the place he wants to be, at any rate. He knows that she's behind him and he wants very badly to see what she looks like, but something deep within in screams _don't turn around, because it will be better if you_ don't.

Her hand snakes its way into his—it's soft, small and colder than anything he has ever touched.

Tate turns around anyway.

In the brief seconds that freeze over, he can see how beautiful she is: she looks near identical to him, but with longer hair, bigger eyes and freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Her hands feel much too frozen as they squeeze around his neck. "Don't you think it's my turn to come out now, Tate?" she asks sweetly (but the expression on her face is anything but).

Tate suddenly remembers just how the dream ends.


End file.
